Number 200
by Lady M28
Summary: A slip from Rory after christening the New York apartment inspires a conversation & an interesting discovery.


**AN**: Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta **fulfilled**. She helps me tremendously. Also, to everyone that helped me figure out the setting for this story. It was pretty easy to write, once I'd gotten an idea, I just couldn't seem to figure out when to set it. It's kinda set during 7.12, _TWIMC_ or there abouts.

This was written for the 200 challenge Written in the Stars, in conjunction with the 200th Sophie thread Fan Forum.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, please sue me not.

**Number 200**

"That was…amazing," you breathe, snuggling down into Logan as he lays an arm across your back.

"It's _always_ amazing," you feel his smile as he kisses your cheek.

"Hmmm, it's always wonderful, I'll give you that," you reply quietly, not wanting to disturb the moment, pulling back, placing a soft kiss on his chest. "But that was definitely top fifty. Maybe even top twenty-five, though that's some stiff competition, pun to be taken or not."

"And this one ranked…" he asks, a quirk of his brow.

"Very high up there," you nod. "Though I guess our two hundredth time should be mind blowing. One hundred was," you giggle, "though it's taken us far too long to get from one to two hundred."

He's quiet for a moment, his forehead wrinkling, a puzzled look coming over his face. "Are you telling me what I think you're telling me?"

"What is it you think I'm telling you?" you defer, feeling your body beginning to blush, knowing you might have stumbled into telling him one of your closest held secrets.

"That the abso-fucking-lutely mind blowing bit of love making we just engaged in was the two hundredth time we've had sex," he returns, one eyebrow rising.

"Then, yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you," and you nod, your cheeks beginning to flame.

"The two hundredth?" he repeats.

"Yeah," you reply, pulling your bottom lip through your teeth.

"You keep track?" he questions after a moment you nod slightly in response, not wanting to admit more than you already have. "Of every single time?"

"Yes," you admit tightly.

"What about when I…"

"No," you shake your head, cutting him off, knowing what he means, "I use the Bill Clinton definition of sex."

"So when you suck me off, which I love, I might add, you don't count that?" he questions.

"Not in that category, no," you confirm. "I don't count when you do it to me there either."

"You have different categories?" he finally begins to laugh.

"Yes," you huff, pushing back, trying to sit up.

"You're not going anywhere," he chastens, locking an arm around your waist, his free hand moving to cup a breast, tweaking a nipple. "You're going to explain - my curiosity is very peaked."

"That's not the only thing," you mutter, feeling him twitching behind the globes of your ass.

"I know," he replies roughly, his voice dropping. "And we're going to take care of that, apparently making for two-oh-one, after I find out how you know the one before was two hundred."

"I have a sex journal, all right," you grind out after a moment. "Why you've never figured that out, I have no idea. I keep track of every book I've ever read, every cd or dvd I've ever bought, what time I get up in the morning, what time I go to bed at night…"

"I know, you're Bob Graham," he laughs.

"Yes, I'm Bob Graham," you nod, shooting him as withering a stare as you can manage while sitting naked on top of him. "You know that - you've known that for ages about me. Why have you never figured out that my OCD-ness would quite naturally translate to 'my-our' sex life?" you gesture back and forth between the two of you.

"I don't know. It just never occurred to me. You're so prudish when you're not naked, and it took you a long time to ask for what you want when you _are_ naked," he says seriously. "Look at how embarrassed you were when you started dirty texting me."

"Yes, but that was to you," you reply.

"But it was about sex," he shoots back. "I guess it never occurred to me that you, who has always been on the shy side talking about sex, or telling me what you want, even though I'm nothing if not at your beck and call, would willingly write about our sex life."

"But it was just for me, it wasn't like I was having to tell you to suck harder, or change an angle so I could get better friction, or when you were busy noodling around my belly button what I really wanted was for you to suck on my nipples," you rush out.

"You don't like when I do that?" he questions.

"No, I like it - I like everything you do to me. I just really like how much attention you've always paid to my breasts, and sometimes I think I just want you to play with them, suck on them, lick them, knead them, that I could let you do that for hours, but I know I would get impatient eventually, wanting you to move on," you admit in a rush, your entire body flaming. "Sometimes you get weirdly preoccupied with my belly button and I want to ask why, but never have.

"Honestly?" he asks, causing you to nod in response. "Don't freak out, but usually that's me imagining you pregnant with my baby."

"_What_!" you screech, a massive knot suddenly forming right under the area of discussion.

"I said to not freak out!" he laughs. "It's not like I'm trying to get you pregnant. Or that I even want to - not right now, anyway. It's just nice sometimes to think about how amazingly gorgeous you're going to be as an expectant mother, and how cute a kid of ours might be. And right below your belly button is where a baby will grow."

"That's kinda sweet," you reply, leaning over to kiss him, the knot unknotting, a warm feeling flowing through your body. "It's also a little weird and crazy."

"Okay, so you can insult me if you want, though you're not one to turn me down, so I'll must keep you quite satisfied," he smirks, running his fingers across your stomach.

"Quite satisfied," you nod, feeling a smile pulling in your cheeks.

"So where is it?" he asks, looking around as if it will appear in front of him. "And how did it take us so long to get to two hundred?" he questions sharply. "We've been together for almost two entire years. That's seven hundred…"

"Two and a half months of which you spent off cheese rolling with Colin and Finn, then we broke up for almost three months, then there was the wedding debacle - there was no sex after that - and by the time I really had worked through everything and forgiven you, there were only two times before you left for London for five entire months. No sex, and then you were just here for a night, five times, one for each month, but really, not adding much to our total. Then you came back the weekend we started looking for this place, then you were back and forth, Christmas in London…"

"We had a lot of sex then," he laughs, waggling his eyebrows, running his fingers up and down the curve of your waist.

"Lots and lots," you grin, leaning in to give him a peck on his lips. "But a couple of weeks can't make up for seven months of not much activity. Which is how we ended up at two hundred at such a slow pace."

"We are a sad duo, Gilmore," he groans, pulling you in flush to his body, laying his head on your shoulder.

"How so?" you chortle.

"I'm twenty-four, you're twenty-two, we're healthy, not lacking in stamina, at our sexual peaks…"

"Actually women reach their sexual peak at around the age of forty - and you're way past yours, it was around eighteen, nineteen," you laugh cheekily.

"We are young, virile…" he continues, ignoring you.

"I'm virile?" you giggle.

"I'm virile," he sighs. "You're drop dead gorgeous, more beautiful by the day, which just makes me want you more. We both have the stamina for a very active sex life, and yet…"

"We're not having enough sex with each other?" you interject.

"Yes, sex, with each other," he nods enthusiastically, pulling back, giving you a quick peck on the lips. "It's my absolute favorite thing in the entire world, and I haven't been attentive enough to making sure I indulge in it on a regular basis."

"I don't feel unattended," you try to sooth, running your hand up and down his bicep. "I have no complaints."

"You _should_!" he cries out. "You should feel like I'm not paying nearly enough attention to all this lovely soft, pale flesh of yours," he continues, running a finger from your ankle, around your knee, up you thigh. "All these wonderful curves that I so adore," he leans in to sprinkle kisses across your clavicle his palm stroking the curve of your waist. "I have been incredibly remiss. You should dump me for my negligence," he mumbles into the top of a breast.

"You want me to dump you?" you giggle breathily. His overreaction is becoming highly amusing, but also very enjoyable, as the fingers of one hand trail up the small of your back, while his lips attach themselves to a nipple and begin to suck, and his other hand begins to knead your other breast, pinching the nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Oh, God no!" he exclaims, accompanied by a suctioning pop. "No, there will be no dumping going on here! We need to be more conscientious, making sure we're not falling behind…" he continues, his brow furrowed.

"Is this some sort of race?" you question sharply. "Who exactly are we competing with?"

"We're not competing with anyone," he replies with a shake of his head. "But we've been together for almost two entire calendar years and we've just hit number two hundred. It would be different if we hadn't been having sex the entire time, but we have. That's seven hundred and…" he trails off, looking past your shoulder out the balcony doors. "That's seven hundred…I can't do math when you're on top of me being distracting."

"Seven hundred-thirty," you supply, smirking.

"Seven hundred-thirty days," he mumbles, "and out of all those opportunities we've only taken advantage of one another two hundred times. It's sad."

"I'm not being distracting, I'm just sitting here," you pout over his ruminations.

"You're naked, with acres of soft, delicious flesh exposed that I love to kiss, stroke…" he begins.

"Are you calling me fat?" you question sharply, trying not to laugh.

"How did you get me implying anything regarding you being fat out of that?" he questions, confusion evident in his wrinkled forehead.

"Acres, you said I have acres of flesh," you poke at his chest. "That implies a large area, which implies you think I'm fat!"

"I did not mean that, you know I didn't mean…" he stops suddenly, looking up at you suddenly. "You're distracting me again. You're obfuscating and confusing me. First with the fact that we've only had sex two hundred times, and now with this 'I'm calling you fat' idiocy!"

"I'm not an idiot!" you gasp, trying to fake outrage.

"You're not distracting me again, so don't even try," he replies evenly, a determined look coming into his eyes, holding your gaze steadily. "You said two hundred might make it into the top twenty-five, definitely top fifty, which means there are rankings. I want to know what they are."

"But that's private," you reply softly, not really wanting to show the journal to him.

"I was there," he continues, "it's not like you'd be sharing your real journal, I wouldn't ever read that. I only want to see because this is about something we do together."

"Not all of them," you admit quietly.

"What…you have…" he sputters, confused for a moment, then looks at you and asks, "Dean?"

"Yeah," you nod, biting your lip.

"I didn't get my own journal?" he laughs tightly, clearly not comfortable with your admission.

"When we first started going out I never dreamt we would end up here. You were still in playboy mode, it wasn't like we were in a relationship," you defend quickly. "And then by the time we were in a relationship I already had like forty-two entries, so what was I supposed to do with those? I just kept going. I figured if we broke up I would start another one when I got to number three."

"Forty-two before we became a couple, and we're just at two-hundred?" he questions sharply, sighing dramatically.

"Yeah, well, that included spring break, where we pretty much did each other for five days straight," you point out. "If there ever was a time when the phrase 'fucking one another's brains out' could be applied to us, that would have been it," you say quickly, your entire body flushing with embarrassment.

"There was a good three straight days there when I never let you put on a single piece of clothing," he smirks, clearly pleased with the memory, "barely let you out of bed, and if I did, it was either to move to the couch, because we fell off the bed, or to pay the takeout guy. Although, I clearly remember making you stay in bed while I went to pay the takeout guy. I finally had to make a trip to the drug store because we ran out of condoms, I'd stupidly forgotten to go get a family pack before you got there, and Lanny, nor Colin, nor Finn had any, very inconsiderate of them. I was in desperate need. "

"And for the first and only time, you actually got tired of going down on me," you laugh.

"I really wanted to fuck you," he laughs with you, pulling you in for a brief kiss; you adjust in his lap, feeling him twitch beneath you. "Going down on you wasn't doing the trick, as fabulous as you taste and as much as I've always enjoyed doing that for you. I was so horny, and hot for you the entire time I was at the ski lodge. There were girls everywhere, all of whom were quite willing to ease my itch, I might add," he smirks.

"Oh, I'm sure," you chuckle, rolling your eyes, remembering how girls used to throw themselves at him.

"Well, they weren't you, and all I wanted to do was bury myself inside you," he mumbles into your shoulder. "So when you showed up I indulged myself, a lot!"

"You can rack up the numbers that way," you sigh as he attaches his lips to your pulse point at the base of your neck. "Kinda like if we'd stayed in London mode longer than we were able, we would have been racking up some quality mileage that way. But we haven't gotten to do that, so, yes, we're at measly two hundred."

"I want to see the journal," he says again, not letting it go.

"Fine," you sigh, getting up, picking up his shirt and putting it on.

"Don't put on clothes - there's no need for them," he chastens. "As soon as I see this journal we're getting right to two-oh-one."

"It's January, I'm naked, it's cold," you admonish over your shoulder.

"I'll get more blankets, and turn on the fire," he calls back.

"That's a capital idea," you throw back over your shoulder, scrounging through your bag to find the small red leather book that houses your 'sex journal.' "I have no clue why you haven't turned on the fireplace already. That was one of the main reasons we picked this place," you continue, walking back into the main room of his-your new apartment, which number two hundred had just christened.

While it's technically his apartment, not yours, everything in it, from Henry's new placement, to the mattress, to the bar stools, to the couch, paintings, pictures of the two of you, and everything in between, had been picked out together. Unlike the New Haven loft this one doesn't look like a bachelor pad that you happen to live in, and have enough drawer space in. Instead, this one looks like a place for the two of you, which makes you smile, and gives you a warm feeling inside. You technically don't live here, but you have just as much drawer space as Logan, just as much closet space, just as much space in the bathroom so your feminine stuff can sit right next to his more masculine stuff. And while he hasn't actually said he wants you to live here after graduation, he's strongly hinted at it, making you determined to try to get a job somewhere near enough that you will be close enough to commute from here, or perhaps go to grad school just uptown at Columbia.

Something happened over Christmas. You hadn't talked to him about it yet, but you'd realized while you were sneaking around his flat putting together his stocking for Christmas morning that he'd become your family, just as much as your mother has always been, and grandparents became during high school. You'd been nervous when he'd suggested spending Christmas together, at first. Nervous, upset, stupid for not telling him you wanted to come see him right away. But also because it would be the first time you'd ever spend Christmas away from your mom. Yet, as you'd tried to be as quiet as a mouse making sure everything was perfect, you'd realized this was exactly where you wanted to be, and exactly who you wanted to be with. Maybe you hadn't talked in a concrete way about the 'future,' instead choosing instead to do it in euphemism and veiled references, but you both knew what the other was talking about - that while you might both still be young, this was real, this was right, this was where you both wanted to be. You wanted it to last.

Lust and urgency had turned into love, and that had turned into a home and that had consequently turned into a family. Maybe, hopefully, one day it would expand. The thought of that doesn't scare you anymore, make you panic, freak you out. Even with his belly button talk. Maybe that's what making your own family was about; this calm sense of rightness, not being afraid of sharing something that you'd always hidden away from him. Knowing that he accepts, even loves, your eccentricities and quirks.

"Hey," he says looking up to see you leaning against the closet door jamb, "I've got plenty of blankets, and pillows and the fire's on."

"I'm coming," you smile, walking over to settle down next to him, under the blankets, snuggling into his side, under his arm.

"So...spring break, that was some quality sex right there," he laughs, settling his chin on your shoulder.

"Doesn't even rank in the top one hundred," you counter.

"_What_!" he gasps. "I did some excellent work during that spring break!"

"I didn't say it wasn't good. When this first came up I said every single time we've been together has been wonderful, and that's true. It has been." You reach back to kiss him. "But not every time has been amazing. And every time can't be like the night you surprised me on the roof of our old place…"

"Oh, that night was amazing," he agrees, turning to kiss your cheek. "We really got into the mayflyness of that night."

"Yeah, and it had an urgency to it, since we both knew you were leaving and that had to tide us over for quite a while again," you consent. "Or the two times we were together before you left. I'm not sure those were up to standard in a physical sense, but the emotional connection, the fact that you'd almost died, that I'd almost thrown everything we had away, that made up for what you couldn't physically do."

"Yeah, I was a little frustrated that I couldn't do much of anything, but we were really connected," he replies, pulling you closer into his side.

"Or, the first time we really made love…" you start.

"Which was?" he questions softly.

"The night we became a couple, you were so different with me. It was like you were worshiping my body, not just having sex with me," you smile at the memory. "I really didn't think anything could be better than that, then the next night happened, and I found out it could be. It was like both of us desperately needed to show each other that we really wanted to be there, to be together. That what we'd just gone through really was worth it."

"It was," he says quietly, his arms tightening around you. "I'll go through all that again if I have to, for you. For us."

"I know," you reply softly, turning your head to capture his lips, leaning into his body, feeling his arms squeeze you. You pull back, letting your forehead rest against his, "Or the night I told you I love you. You couldn't tell me back with words, but you showed me with the way you made love to me. Those are the ones that mean a lot to me. Or even the first time we made love after we got back together - that whole night was amazing."

"Yeah, it was," he smiles, his dimples flaring. "Or that day we spent in bed after we had that fight about the article."

"Yup," you smile. "It's about the emotional connection we've built, as much as it is about being physically compatible. Times like spring break were great - I wouldn't trade that for anything, that's part of what got us here, but that's nothing compared to…"

"Christmas morning," he grins, making you chuckle. "You naked and sweaty, except for the diamond hoops I got you, surrounded by wrapping paper. You were the best decoration any tree has ever had!"

"You were like a little kid, tearing through the wrapping paper on your gifts," you laugh, blushing at his memory.

"And then I tore your pajamas off you!" he smirks.

"Yes, you did," you giggle.

"I get what you're saying, though. Yeah, the physical compatibility made for a nice foundation, but it's the emotional connection, the sense of belonging, that's what really makes a difference, what makes what we have now different from what was going on at the beginning," he continues. "That's what's kept me faithful. Made me go home to call you, instead of easily taking care of the fact that I hadn't had sex in months all through the time I was in London. You probably would have never found out, but the guilt would have driven me crazy. I don't want to lose you, or us."

"Thank you," you say after a moment.

"For what?" he asks, you've clearly lost him.

"For going home alone, for remaining faithful, for loving me - and us - more than your immediate needs. I don't think I can begin to explain how much I really needed that from you, and how much it really means to me," you reply, looking at him up through your lashes.

"I love us, I love you, I'm not jeopardizing that ever again," he smiles, kissing your hair. "You know," he says after a moment, "I used to keep a sex journal. You were the last entry."

"You did?" you chuckle.

"Yeah, so if I got something I would know who to contact. Penicillin is great for the clap, but its better if you can find out where you got it," he laughs.

"Ewww, I really don't want to think about that! I've never had anything like that and I plan on never having anything like that in the future," you reply, scrunching up your nose.

"I don't plan on you ever getting anything like that, either," he smirks. "Is Dean anywhere in your top fifty?"

"Nope," you shake your head and laugh. "It's all you."

"Good," he snorts.

"I read back through the early entries last summer while you were in London, the Dean ones, and even the ones of ours. I figured I had nothing better to do, and I have to say I was surprised," you admit. "I didn't know what I was doing, and thought it was amazing, and really we were both two kids that barely knew what went where, much less how to really please each other. I know he had been with Lindsay, but…" you trail off, the debacle with Dean never something you've become comfortable talking about with anyone.

"I guess there's no discounting enthusiasm, since you were pretty inexperienced when doing you quickly became my favorite activity," he chuckles, moving his shirt over so he can kiss your shoulder.

"No, I guess you're right," you agree. "But I redid the categories this summer, rankings and such. I added red and blue stars," you say, opening the journal.

"You know what," he says, closing the book in your hands. "Keep it to yourself. I think we'll go out tomorrow and get me my own and you a new one, since it looks like you're getting close to the end of this one," he smiles, fingering the back where there are only a few pages left. "Once I start one we can compare notes. You can teach me just how to keep up with our sex life."

"Okay," you grin, amused he wants to share in one of your more odd activities. "You know, it was fun to read back and be able to note when I realized that kissing or licking the very back of your jaw really turns you on, or how nipping your earlobe gets you excited. Or how you love when I nuzzle your belly button with my nose. Or even how your left nipple is more sensitive than your right."

"All of that's in there?" he asks, tapping on the journal.

"Yeah," you nod.

"Is how much you love when I suck on this spot on your clavicle in there?" he mumbles, pushing the collar of his shirt out of the way to give him access.

"No," you breathe, "that's the kinda thing you should put in yours."

"Mmmm, okay," he murmurs, attaching his lips to your shoulder blade, sucking hard, making your skin tingle. "Four hundred is going to come much more quickly than two hundred did," he chuckles, unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off your shoulders. "Much more quickly."

FIN

**Endnote**: this ended up being the very last GG story I ever wrote, so it's appropriate to post it last. It was only ever posted at WitS, Illusive and my lj, of course. By the time I actually posted the story my muse had flown the coop and never returned. I find it fitting that I went out as a GG fic writer with this, it captured everything I love about Rory and Logan, and why I have always, and will always, believe they belong together. Thank you to everyone who has read my old stories, and especially those of you that reviewed & favorited, it means a lot.

Reviews are received with love.


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